Left To Die, a ncis fanfic

Title: Left to Die

Author: Special Agent Meg

Rating: T

Classification: Angst/Suspense, Hurt/Comfort

Spoilers: References to specific scenes from Hiatus I & II, Smoked, Light Sleeper, Chained, and Bete Noire. Also a reference to a comment made on The Curse.

Disclaimers: Don't own them. Just love them.

Warnings: Let's put it this way, I made myself cry writing it. Contains violence and a severely injured character.

Summary: There's nothing more I can do. This is it. I've been left to die.

It hurts. Oh, does it hurt.

I don't even want to open my eyes right now. Just shut them tighter, and maybe it'll hold the pain back.

Okay, it's not holding anything back. I feel tears start to well up and I can't help it. I let out a moan. Not that it really matters. I'm probably the only one who hears it anyway.

The wind comes up, brushing across my face. It's cool, comforting. I'm outside somewhere. The wind slackens for a second, then continues, gently touching my cheeks. I relax a little and I turn my head a little more towards the breeze. For a moment I'm back home, lying on the living room couch as my mother gently wipes my face with a cool cloth. Slowly, I open my eyes.

It's dark out, but I can still make faint outlines out. Fences, on either side of me, and behind them, buildings. There's soft dirt underneath my hands, too, but not very deep.

I'm in an alley. Scott shot me and then dumped me in the alley.

Scott shot me...I've got to get out of here. I've got to get help.

"Aaugh!" I hear myself cry out before I realize why. I just tried to get up and now I've got even more pain ripping through my chest. I fall back, my head landing against some type of bag or piece of Styrofoam. I don't really know which.

Oh, ow. Oh, ow. I want to scream a lot more than that but I can't. In front of me the alley is starting to go white.

No, no. Take a deep breath.

"Auhhh!"

Don't take a deep breath. The white is coming closer.

No, please...

It's near sunset and I'm positioned behind a hill, looking through the scope of a Marine M3-A1 and into the living room window of an up-scale three-story home. Inside, Commander Scott runs his hand restlessly along the surface of the dark walnut china cabinet leaning against the wall. His wife, Elizabeth, went missing six days ago. Up on the dining room wall, there's a D.C. map, full of colored pushpins. He's tracking the search, the way men used to track the Allies' progress during World War II.

An NCIS agent stands in front of the map, studying it. Normally, there would be a second. Because of the urgency of this case, he and his team have been split up for the majority of the investigation, operating with everyone in a different place tracking down a different lead. So he stands there, alone, tracing movements on the map with his fingers as he talks.

It's me.

I'm saying something about sending people back to the mall where Elizabeth Scott was last seen. There's a wooded area just across the parking lot from the mall and I mention how agents are continuing to canvass the area in a spiral, using both hands to illustrate. On the other side of the park is a lake.

The Commander answers, "They aren't going to find her there."

I turn away from the map and look at him. "You sound pretty certain of that."

He tries to grin, like he thinks he'll look brave. "Well, alive. I mean, we both know the statistics, Agent Gibbs and what you're not telling me. She's been gone six days. They're looking for a body now."

I step closer to him. "You know, I remember another Elizabeth who went missing a few years ago. She was gone for nine months."

He doesn't answer, just turns and rests his hands on the surface of the china cabinet with his back to me.

"And she was not in a body bag when she came back. Her family never gave up hope, either."

I can see the tension in his shoulders. "Well, what can I say, Agent Gibbs," he says, feigning a chuckle. "Hope kills."

He turns around. And I see what he's holding, a second before I hear the crack.

Rule 17, you idiot ― never talk to a suspect...

It slams directly into my chest. My legs buckle. Pressure weights against my chest like nothing I've ever known, forcing me back.

...without backup.

I never feel the fall.

Ow.

It's barely a whisper as I turn my head to the side. I can't believe how much this hurts. I'm not really conscious yet, and I don't really want to be. I feel the wind on my face again and that brings me aware enough to make the effort to open my eyes.

I try and breathe again, this time shallower so that maybe I'll stay conscious. It's more of a hoarse gasp that catches in my throat on the way. Instinctively I bring my hand up to my mouth.

The first cough hurts so much I feel tears come into my eyes and I can't even hold my hand up. Forget breathing clearly, it's not worth it. I try and stop coughing, but I can't. There's blood in my lung or my throat or something and it's choking me. My body is not going to let it stay there, no matter how much it hurts in the process. And no matter that I don't even have the strength to cough enough for it to make a difference. In the end I still feel that catch in my throat. All I've done is make myself hurt even more than I did before.

When it's all over I just lay there, staring into the night but not really seeing anything. I can't believe it, I don't want to believe it, but there's nothing more I can do. This is it. I've been left to die.

I'm back behind the sniper scope again. This time I'm on a roof, staring into the room of a hospital. A man is lying in the bed, unconscious, his head bandaged and his mouth hooked up to a ventilator. It's me again.

Ducky is pulling a chair up to my bedside. "Well, Jethro," he says. "I'd have been here sooner, only DiNozzo insisted I finish the autopsy on Agent Ghalib." He settles down in the chair and prepares for a long series of stories.

From behind the scope I chuckle. Dear, dear, Ducky.

I'm not sure how long he goes on before the doctor enters the room. Suddenly there's a burst of activity. I've just woken up and not particularly peacefully either. There's a flurry of voices trying to calm me down. Above them all I can here Ducky's encouraging, "Come on, that's it."

Suddenly I'm lying back ― well, the nurse is trying to make me lie back ― and just staring at Ducky. I gasp out, "I don't know him."

Ducky seems startled, and a little frightened by the comment, but not half as frightened as I am.

Looking at it through the scope, it just amazes me. I've run the memory through my mind a dozen times and still can't get it to make sense. Looking into the face of one of my oldest, dearest friends, and seeing them as a stranger. Like I said when I climbed the stairs to MTAC a few days later, and stopped to put my arm around his shoulders, "How could I have forgotten?"

The wind on my face causes the scope to fade away again, but I don't even bother to open my eyes this time. There's not much point. I'm only going to get so many chances at this. One of these times I'm going to lose consciousness and not wake up again. I know that I should be fighting it, but I'm so tired.

Don't give up, that's an order!

Abby's voice comes into my mind. Or to be more accurate, Abby imitating my voice. I can't help but smile as I remember that day I came into the lab and she proceeded to hold an entire conversation for the both of us, saying what she knew I'd say in the way she knew I'd say it. In the end I didn't end up saying anything, just gave her a little kiss on the way out. Nobody could cheer me up when I was in a bad mood the way Abby did.

Tell it to stick it.

What? My eyes fly open.

Tell the pain to stick it!

McGee. The blood loss must really be getting to me if I'm imagining him telling me to say that. When we had that exchange for real it was me saying it to him. To the Deputy Secretary of Something-or-other. I don't even remember. The poor kid was a wreck. But the pride in his voice when he called me back and said he'd done it. He was still nervous, but I could hear the pride underneath. All I could do was smile and say "Good job," and wish I could have been there to see his face.

I open my eyes and look up at the nearby fence. I'm not going to be able to say "Stick it," or "Good job," or anything. I'm sorry, McGee.

The whiteness is coming back. I wonder how many chances I have left.

It's daylight and through the scope I can see NCIS headquarters. Into NCIS Headquarters, and down into Autopsy. I don't care how good of a sniper you are, there's no way you're getting that into your scope.

The lights are on, and people are all over the place. Mostly EMTs and SWAT team members. I can see Tony, walking me across the room as I hold an oxygen mask to my face. And Abby.

Abby's there, looking nervously around the corner of the door. What's she doing down there?

I remember that day. I remember that whole month. She'd been terrified of coming down to Autopsy ever since she'd had a nightmare about it. It didn't matter what happened, there was no way she'd go downstairs.

About a week before that I'd come down the hall and saw her standing there in front of the elevator and just glaring at it. And I mean glaring. I'd put a hand on her shoulder and she'd just looked up with this devastated expression. She needed to bring some evidence down to Ducky and couldn't. I told her I'd take it down for her.

I went to step onto the elevator and she grabbed my arm. I turned and she practically yelled, "Don't stop. I'm going with you." She figured my momentum would drag her in so she had no choice.

So I kept walking, pressed the button and shut the door, all with her beside me. She looked completely agitated and there were tears streaming down her cheeks. Suddenly she just flew at the door, completely panicked.

I hit the emergency switch and grabbed her, holding her tightly in a hug. "It's okay, it's okay. We're not going anywhere." Her entire body was shaking. "We're not going anywhere. The elevator can't go down. It's all right." I just kept repeating that and rubbing her back for I don't know how long.

She hadn't tried to go down again. Until now.

Now, she was here. She looked tentative and like she could run at any second, but she was here. Because her family was here and in trouble and she wasn't going to let fear keep her away.

The scope shifted to the squadroom, two years later. To Ziva, Tony, and McGee sitting at their desks. I'm standing in front of them. And hearing Ziva say, "We're a team, Gibbs. That's what we do."

We're a team, Gibbs. That's what we do.

The wind brings me back to consciousness again and this time I jerk my eyes open. And groan. My eyelids are so heavy, they want to just close again.

No!

Desperate to stay awake, I shift my knee, bending it slightly. Oh, does that hurt. I brace myself against the pain and force myself to remember Ziva's words.

We're a team, Gibbs. That's what we do.

We are a team. They are my team, and I've already left them once. I don't care how much it hurts. I cannot, I will not leave them again.

I'm not sure how much time has passed. The wind has died down, and my face is starting to feel hot. All I know is I have not lost consciousness again.

That hasn't been easy, but every time I start to see white I force myself to move. My hand, my leg, something. It hurts and I think I've cried out more than once, but I don't have a choice. I have to stay awake. I can't lose consciousness one more time.

I remember Ducky telling me that, years ago, in Autopsy. That I couldn't lose consciousness. Well, that I couldn't go to sleep, actually. When Diane hit me with the baseball bat. She was waiting for me next to my car when I left work that night.

Ducky was the one who found me in the parking lot and those were the first words out of his mouth. "You can't go to sleep." That's all I remember, lying there on the pavement, my head throbbing so bad I could barely keep my eyes open, and Ducky leaning over me and telling me I can't go to sleep. I don't know how, but he kept me awake that whole night.

I wish he was here right now.

I attempt to breathe and the pain is so bad that tears stream down my cheeks. I can't even remember how long that's been happening. A while now. Every breath and it's like that bullet striking me all over again. Except I don't remember it hurting that much the first time.

I don't know how much longer I can hold on.

Well, today certainly brought back a lot of memories.

Ducky's voice. I'm hallucinating again. Somehow that isn't bothering me as much as it should.

"Yeah," I whisper.

The whiteness is coming back. No, I can't lose consciousness again. I'm not going to get another chance.

Desperately I try to move my knee again. It's not working. The white is still coming.

This is it. I'm not going to wake up this time.

The whiteness dissolves and I see the scope in front of my eyes.

This time I'm seeing Ducky and I again at night, in the squadroom. We're the only ones there. And I'm looking Ducky in the eye and asking him straight, even though I don't know that I want to know the answer, what I've done that has ticked him off.

He's hesitant as he starts to reply, about when he took me home the night I retired. Gradually his voice grows stronger, as he points out how I didn't say a word to him for the entire drive.

I don't know what to say. I hate using illness as an excuse, but I also know that I would never treat an old friend like that under ordinary circumstances. So, I tell him, "I was still recovering from the coma, Doctor," and pray for him to understand. This isn't a cop-out, it's not an excuse and I still screwed up royally. But please understand this isn't something I would do deliberately if I'd been thinking in my right mind.

He starts talking about Shannon and Kelly next and it's all I can do to hold it together then too. Again I beg him to understand, that I can't talk about this even now, and he does, but he just stands there, looking at me. So I stand up and come around to stand in front of him.

"You know how I feel about apologies, right?" I manage quietly.

Ducky nods. "Yeah, that they're a sign of weakness."

"Not between friends." My voice is as firm as it can be with the catch in my throat and I step closer. "I am sorry, Ducky. I should have told you."

"Well, I should have told you something months ago." He grips my hand in a firm shake and smiles. "Welcome home."

Suddenly the lights start getting darker. Even the scope is hard to see.

Sorry, Ducky.

The scope fades away.

Welcome home.

"Well, Jethro, I'd have been here sooner..."

It's Ducky's voice again, only this time I'm not in a coma.

"It's okay, son. I'll take care of you."

I hear the wheels of a gurney. Oh, Ducky. This wasn't supposed to happen. I was supposed to outlive you, so you never had to do my autopsy like this.

"Come on, that's it."

They're putting something over my face. It's the plastic, it comes before the body bag. They're putting it on my mouth and nose.

"No." It's barely a whisper as I try to put my hand up. "No..."

A hand tightens firmly around mine. Panicked, I try and squeeze for all I'm worth. I don't think my hand moves at all.

"Oh, thank God."

But I guess it did.

"Jethro, can you hear me?"

I try and squeeze again, then use every ounce of strength I have to pull my eyes open. And see the plastic on my mouth and nose.

It's not plastic from a body bag. It's an oxygen mask. I've been found.

"Just hang on, Jethro, you're going to be all right."

Ducky leans over so that I can see him. Behind him I can just make out Abby, with Tony's arm around her. She looks terrified. I let go of Ducky's hand and reach towards her.

"Abbs, I'm okay."

I don't think she hears me. I'm not even sure I actually got the words out. But suddenly she's gripping my hand with one hand and squeezing my shoulder with the other.

"Gibbs?"

The voice comes from behind Abby. It's Ziva. McGee's there too. I try and smile at them.

They found me. I'm going to be all right.

The wind brushes against my face again and this time I let myself relax.

I'm going to be all right.

THE END